Scarred

By Fred L. Funk

Lester Bedford’s grandfather, the colonel was anything but a role model for a young man growing up on the Texas prairie. A boozer, a womanizer, a chiseler --- Les idolized him, followed in his footsteps, just as his uncles had done. The colonel pretty much ran the town of Noodle and encouraged his grandson to avail himself of its salacious resources. But one day Les trifled with the wrong woman and he barely escaped Jones County with his life. . . .but not before the woman’s other lovers carved an everlasting message into his flesh.
Les fled to Thackerville Oklahoma, far away from his former life. Finding a new job and meeting the right woman gave him a new lease on life. It might even have made him a new man. But years later when Les and his family returned to Jones County he learned that some scars never really heal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fred L. Funk
• Release date: May 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005874971

Fred L. Funk

Born and raised in North Texas near Denton. Graduated Denton High School 1960. Attended what is now The University of North Texas and transfered to East Texas State College to pursue a pre-theology degree. Served as pastor of numerous churches in North and East Texas. Later switched career to accounting and finance. Worked thirty-five years for a national retail furniture chain. Now retired and started a new career writing novels.Married to Dana for 52 years. Have two daughters and one son and seven grandchildred. Dana and I live in North Texas with two crazy cats that have agree to let us share the house.

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SCARRED

A N O V E L B Y

Fred L. Funk341

Copyright © 2022 by Fred L. Funk

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.

For information, contact: Fruit Jar Junction Press P.O. Box 213 Aubrey, Texas 76227 [e-mail]

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover and interior design by Crystal Wood

DEDICATION

This novel is dedicated to all the hard-working family farmers who eked out a meager living while providing food and fiber for the American people. Those heroes provided sustenance for many generations. They have now been pushed aside by large corporate farms, just as so many small businesses have been bankrupted by corporations. This story is also dedicated to all people who have been affected by violent crimes, especially homicide. Premeditated murder is never justified, regardless of rationalized reasons. Those who indulge in these pursuits should be held accountable.

OTHER BOOKS BY FRED L. FUNK

Ministry and Moonshine

Moonshiners’ Revenge

The Ghosts of Glenwick Lane

Moonshine Memories

Life and Death on Cannon Creek

The Throwaway Son

Justice for Cassie

Ephrim’s Journey

Terror Mountain

Lettie’s Sin

Three Men in a Grave

Scarred

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to acknowledge my late mother who provided the bare bones for this story. She related firsthand information as told to her by a member of the jury in the real murder case that formed the basis for my book. Without her input there would have been no tale to tell. As always, I acknowledge my ever-supportive wife, Dana. She is my researcher, helping me keep historical facts, places, and events accurate. Crystal Wood for her fantastic cover and interior design. Without Crystal there would be no books.

CHAPTER 1

The Killing

Please, Clay, please! Put the gun down. Oh, God, Clay, please don’t kill me. I’ll stop. I promise. Sweet Jesus, forgive me. Please, Clay, no!

The thunder of gunfire drowned out Les’s frantic plea. Clay’s eyes burned with a demonic stare. Without saying another word, he unloaded both barrels on Les and then reloaded. The first blast ripped the victim’s legs from under him and knocked him to the ground. Clay fired both chambers a second time and then reloaded again. The noxious smell of burning gunpowder mixed with the putrefying odor of blood and guts overwhelmed him as he walked to where Les lay writhing in pain on the ground, barely clinging to life. The assailant emptied two more rounds into the man. His body went limp. Lester Bedford was dead.

*****

Why did Clay Roston blast my uncle to pieces with his shotgun? Milton James asked. What horrible thing could he have done that caused Clay to kill ‘im, especially in such a violent way?

What are you talking about? Bernice Hunt countered unconvincingly. What makes you think such a thing, and if Clay did murder Les, how would I know anything about it?

Now in their eighties, the two cousins, Bernice and Milton, had maintained a close relationship since childhood. They had grown up living near each other on farms owned and worked by two brothers, their fathers, Elbert and Lawton James. Even though their mothers were less than good friends, the cousins had a bond more like brother and sister, since Bernice did not have a brother and Milton did not have a sister. Although less than a year separated their ages, for as long as he could remember, Milton had looked up to Bernice as the older, more knowledgeable one.

I remember hearing grownups talking about the killing when I was a little kid, but when they realized I was in the room they’d quit talking. At an early age Milton realized when grownups didn’t want him to hear what they were saying. I had no idea what a jury was, but I do seem to recollect somebody saying Uncle Elbert was on the jury.

Milton, you just think you remember those things. We were only seven years old, and memories from so long ago can be distorted.

Come on, Bernice. You know about it. We’ve always told each other just about everything, so please tell me why Clay killed my uncle. The few memories I have from hearing it talked about really bug me. I really want to know why.

I don’t believe you really want to know the dirty little secret, Bernice blurted out without thinking. Her reply constituted an admission that she knew about the murder.

Yes, I do want to know, he insisted. All my life, I’ve heard rumors that Uncle Les had a dark, checkered past. Some folks say that’s putting it mildly. Did that have anything to do with the killing? The whole situation has bugged me for years. When I’d ask Mom about it, her face’d turn red, her eyes’d get all steely, she kinda pursed her lips, she’d get all defensive, and tell me to be quiet. If I kept on bugging her about it, she’d flat out tell me to shut up. You’re the only person still alive that knows anything about it. Please tell me.

I’m only a few months older than you, so how would I know any more about it than you do?

Because Uncle Elbert was on the jury. I know how you and your father told each other just about everything.

I don’t know much, but I guess I can tell you what little I do know, Bernice agreed hesitantly.

*****

Clay, you swore me to secrecy when you’ve confided to me about what Les has been up to, and I have kept my lips sealed. his close friend, Chester Hicks informed.

I knew you wouldn’t blab it around, or I wouldn’t’a ever told you. Can’t nobody know what he’s been up to ‘til I decide what to do about it. Should I confront ‘im, tell the sheriff about it, or just what?

Maybe you should just keep quiet.

You know I can’t do that. What he’s doin’ just ain’t right. Gotta be stopped.

I appreciate you trustin’ me that away, and that’s why I gotta tell you what I overheard the other day down at the Loose Saddle. Les, you need to decide what you’re gonna do.

Les, and others who enjoyed a beer or two or three, frequented the Loose Saddle Saloon in the small West Texas town called Noodle. Les and his less-than-savory friends gathered there often. Local lore is that the establishment gained its name and reputation as the place where men drank so much cheap whiskey that they would fall-down dead drunk like a rider would fall off a horse if the saddle was loose. Many of those who imbibed at the seedy bar also had problems with loose tongues.

What did you hear? Was that sorry lout blabbin’ about the crap he’s been pullin’? Clay asked.

Les was so soused up that he didn’t realize that I could hear him talkin’, but he was talkin’ real loud like drunks do, so loud that folks all over town probably heard ‘im. I didn’t hear him talkin’ too much about what he had been doin’, but some. I heard him tell a couple of his drinkin’ buddies that he just couldn’t keep what he had done a secret no more. Said he was gonna tell ever’body ever’thing, and anybody that didn’t like it could just be damned. It was like he was proud of the things he had done and wanted to brag about ‘em. Clay, I’m afraid if he gets all likkered up, he’s libel to tell the whole world.

Let me off here at the gate, Clayton Roston instructed. You go on about your business and come find me in about a hour.

Clay, what the heck are you up to, his friend Chester asked. You gonna talk to Les about what he’s been up to?

Just never you mind about that.

Why the shotgun?

Chester, you don’t need to know. Fact is, it’s better that you don’t know. After what you heard at the Loose Saddle I’ve got to attend to some real personal business. Just come back and get me in about a hour. I probably won’t be right here. If you do see me right here, then don’t stop. Just keep on goin’. I’ll probably be somewhere down the road a ways, out of sight, off in that little stand of mesquite trees down by the creek, but I’ll see you comin’.

Confused and wondering what his buddy was up to, Chester drove away in his model T Ford. For the life of me I can’t figure out what Clay is up to. Why on earth did he have me leave him at Les Bedford’s gate and what the heck did he have his shotgun with him for? Why should I keep going if I see him still at Les’ss gate? I know he’s real mad at Les, but what the heck is he gonna do? Probably shoulda never told ‘im what I heard.

The Bedford farm consisted of two hundred acres where the family had eked out a hard living from the less-than-fertile soil for two generations. The original house, little more than a shack, had been replaced with a Sears and Roebuck kit house that consisted of a central hallway flanked by four rooms, one on each side at the front, and two across the back at the end of the hall. The gleaming white structure with a pitched roof that came to a high point in the center stood on top of a slightly elevated knoll three quarters of a mile from the gate. Clearly visible from this vantage point, dust from the dirt road signaled the arrival of the postman each day.

Don’t care if he has been my friend, I ain’t gonna put up with his crap no more. Clay lay in wait behind a large pomegranate bush that Les’s late wife, Lela, had planted near the gate years earlier. He’s been up to no good for the better part of three years now and he says he gonna tell ever body. I’m gonna put a stop to it today.

*****

That’s what I need to know, Milton reiterated. What kind of ‘crap’ had Les been up to for three years? What did he do that was so horrible that Clay waited at the gate with his shotgun?

It doesn’t really matter, Milton. That was a long time ago and it didn’t have anything to do with you or me, or your mother or any of us, Bernice hedged.

But Les was Mom’s brother, so it did have something to do with me. Bernice, I really can’t say exactly why, but it really does matter to me, he insisted.

Sometimes it’s best to just let sleeping dogs lie.

Come on, Bernice. You’ve told me this much. You can’t just leave me hanging.

*****

Clay pulled out a handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped sweat from his brow. November had ushered in pleasant fall weather that engulfed the area, but profuse perspiration still poured off his burning red face. Nervousness caused the facial discoloration and produced the moisture as the man contemplated the unsavory task at hand. Wet clammy hands gripped a double-barreled shotgun as the culprit waited for the arrival of his prey.

Les’s’ll be along any minute now, he thought as the postman pulled up beside the gate, reached out the window of his tin lizzie, opened the mailbox, and deposited the day’s posts. He always saddles his horse and rides down to get the mail right after it’s delivered. Don’t matter how hot or cold it is. Been doin’ it every day of the week except Sunday for years. When he gets off his horse to open the gate, I’ll take care o’ business.

Even though Les’s misdeeds infuriated Clay, he had turned a blind eye for some time. When he got wind that the miscreant intended to reveal what had transpired to all his relatives, friends, and acquaintances, Clay knew the scoundrel had to be stopped. Members of the families involved and others in the community did not need to know about the rogue’s offenses. He would pay dearly for what he had done.

*****

I didn’t realize that Les was a drinker, Milton exclaimed. This is the first time I’ve heard about him frequenting the Loose Saddle. From what I remember that place had a real bad reputation. I’ve heard that a lot more than drinking went on there.

They always kept that kinda stuff hid from us kids, but Daddy told me later that Les really liked his liquor and the other activities at the Loose Saddle. He said that Les made moonshine in his younger days, but as he got a little older, he went for the boughten stuff. A woman of high moral standards but unafraid to discuss most topics, Bernice and her father had a close bond, and they shared many things.

Sounds to me like Clay mighta been hiding something himself since he turned a blind eye to Les’s antics for some reason. Maybe he was involved somehow, Milton suggested.

According to Daddy, Clay and his friend, Chester, would have a beer at the Loose Saddle, but never more than two and they did not indulge in other activities that went on there. He said that Les most likely learned about ‘life’ there, if you know what I mean.

Oh, yeah. I know, but why did Clay care what Les had done and what difference did it make to him if the rascal spread it around? Was Clay hiding something, Bernice?

Well, in a way Clay was kinda hiding a secret, she replied.

This is getting more mysterious than ever. Seems like everybody’s closets were filled with skeletons.

You’d be surprised at all the shenanigans back then. Probably just as bad as the stuff that goes on today, but it was hushed up. Of course, when I was a kid, I had no idea either. Daddy finally told me about it when I asked him why my mother didn’t like your mother.

I’ve wondered about that myself, Milton informed. As I recall, things were real frosty when they were together at some family function or other. I reckon that’s water under the bridge since they are both gone now.

I suppose it is water under the bridge, but I’ll tell you later why Daddy thought my mother didn’t like your mother. It ties into the whole sordid tale.

*****

If Les tells ever’body what he’s done, folks’ll think I’m just like ‘im since we have been real good friends for a long time. As crazy as it sounds, they might think I was in on it, or that I excused what he was doin’. They say, birds of a feather flock together. I just won’t have folks thinkin’ that about me. Sure wish he’d get on down here so I can get this nasty business done and over with. I don’t like what I’m about to do, but it has to be.

Clay heard the clomping of horse’s hooves against the ground, and